“And the crew?” he asked Rush.
“It was dusk when we anchored. Most slipped away in a boat to the far shore as soon as it was dark.” Rush cast an uncertain glance toward Alice Dawson. “There are other injuries. The professor is doing his best, down the hall.” He bent over the now-unconscious naval officer, taking his pulse.
“Professor?”
Rush cast a nervous glance at Alice. “I will finish here. Perhaps Mrs. Dawson can make introductions.”
Alice did indeed take him into the corridor but stopped at the back window that overlooked the fields and outbuildings. “Gabriel was boasting about it at breakfast. The traitor’s cradle he calls it.” She was looking at the gallows. Four nooses now dangled from it.
She reached out and gripped Duncan’s arm. “Gabriel brought in more of his thugs. They patrol the hills like soldiers. He says he hopes you all try to run, since a ball of lead costs a lot less than a good rope. I’m so scared, Duncan.”
Duncan too found it difficult to look away. It was as if he were staring into his own grave. For years he had suffered nightmares of his father hanging on the gibbet outside Inverness, pointing at an empty noose.
Alice tugged at his sleeve, pulling him toward a room at the end of the hall. “The professor is a great scholar of the Old World. He spouts Latin and asks for Earl Grey tea.”
Duncan glanced at the stiff back of the man in powdered wig and velvet waistcoat who bent over his patient, whose head was mostly obscured with a bloody bandage. Duncan took a tentative step forward, then his heart leapt as the professor extended his hand to adjust the bandage and he saw the tattoo of a turtle on his wrist.
It was all Duncan could do not to cry out when the man turned. For the first time in weeks he felt lightness in his heart. The professor nodded stiffly to Duncan, then bowed to his hostess. “My esteemed and beneficent Mrs. Dawson,” came his rich, refined voice. “I beg your leave. We must perform a more complete examination of our patient’s body, if you get my meaning.”
“Of course, Professor Moon,” he heard Alice say. “I leave you gentlemen to your . . . delicate affairs.”
Conawago did not move until the door latched behind her, then he just grinned and slipped off the wig. “Scratchy damned thing,” he said, tossing the curls on the bed. He seemed unable to speak for a moment as he examined Duncan. “You look thin, son,” he observed, and extended his arms.
Duncan felt like a lost child who had found his home as he embraced the old Nipmuc.
“My God, Duncan, we feared the worse,” Conawago said. “Thanks to Mr. Rush we had a fast boat from Philadelphia.”
“We?”
His question was answered as the injured man sat up and began unwinding the bandage from his head.
“Patrick!”
“My Scottish doctor advised no travel for several weeks,” Woolford said, “no strenuous efforts. But a boat cruise is no effort at all.”
The questions came in rapid succession. Analie had sped north as soon as she had seen Duncan and his companions put in chains. “You were right, Patrick,” Duncan declared. “They know the secrets. They mean to hang every one of us.”
Rage gripped Woolford’s face. “It’s this damned black Admiral of Virginia! He may operate with leave of the Kraken lords in London but hanging men still requires a warrant. He has no warrant. He has no evidence of a crime!”
“The evidence will materialize as he needs it,” came a worried voice from the connecting doorway. “And I’ve had a letter from a discreet friend in Williamsburg. The magistrate for our county has taken a huge loan from the Rappahannock Company.”
“Meaning he’s mortgaged his soul to Ramsey,” Duncan spat, then saw the question on Woolford’s face. “It’s Lord Ramsey, Patrick Ramsey is the black Admiral.”
The color drained from Woolford’s face, then he looked with worry at his hostess.
“She knows,” Conawago inserted.
Alice acknowledged the obvious question on Conawago’s face. “I am a great admirer of the theater, Mr. Moon. You played your parts exceedingly well but you should have put more powder over the tribal tattoos on your wrists.”
“I suggested bandages,” Conawago explained with a peeved look at Woolford, “but Patrick thought powder would do. Not enough apparently.” He bowed to Alice. “Forgive us. Conawago of the Nipmuc tribe, though I put on Socrates Moon when I don my waistcoat.”
Alice smiled. “And an elegant one it is.”
“A gift from my days in the French court,” Conawago explained. Although the fashion of the velvet cut was dated by some decades, the overdone French jacket was, Duncan knew, one of his prized possessions. The old Nipmuc touched his fingers to his forehead and bowed again.
As Woolford offered a reluctant introduction, Duncan saw the suspicion lingering in his eyes. “She is a friend,” he assured the ranger captain.
As Alice and her new acquaintances spoke, Duncan wandered to the window overlooking the river. A plank dance floor had been laid out by the portico. A launch was pushing off from the brig, rowing toward the mill around the point. A small party worked on the captured sloop. If the Penelope was to be claimed as a prize, they would want to rapidly repair her damage so she could be conveyed to a naval port for appraisal. Half a dozen dinghies and dugouts, used by river fishermen, were drawn up on the beach where the slaves were taken to bathe. A new boat had arrived, a little ketch with ornate paintwork and flying a long banner on its mast.
Below him a blonde girl ran across the dance boards, chased by one of the young housemaids into the lilacs. Titus watched, speaking with an auburn-haired woman.
Duncan did not realize he had made a sound but when he looked back his companions were staring at him. Conawago grinned as Duncan darted out of the room. Moments later, as his feet scattered the gravel of the garden path, the woman turned. Sarah’s eyes welled with tears but she did not move toward him. Analie gave a little yelp of joy and darted forward, only to suddenly stop and back away, staring behind him in sudden fear.
Gabriel had appeared, with half a dozen of his bullies moving to encircle Duncan.
Another figure stepped from the shadows, resplendent in red silk waistcoat and white linen, his long periwig dangling around his shoulders. Lord Ramsey had gained weight and the sash of his invented rank, embroidered with crown and lion, stretched tight over his belly. An ox of a man followed, a step behind Ramsey. Teague’s eyes were on fire. He touched the long, still-pink scar along his hairline as he approached, reminding Duncan that it was time for his vengeance.
In his hand Ramsey carried a pair of calfskin gloves. The black eyes above his heavy jowls gleamed with excitement. “Had I only known, I would have left you to rot in that Scottish prison!” he spat. He lifted his gloves and slapped them lightly across Duncan’s jaw. Before Duncan could react Teague slammed his open right hand against the place where the gloves had touched. Duncan staggered but did not fall. He twisted at a cry from Sarah and saw her being seized by two of Gabriel’s men. Ramsey slapped his other cheek with the gloves and Teague hit him there.
“Father!” Sarah sobbed. “No! I beg you!”
Ramsey seemed not to hear. He slapped Duncan’s chest and Teague pounded it with a fist. There was no point in resisting. The men all around held clubs.
For a moment Sarah broke free, and shouldered her way into the circle, almost reaching Duncan before Ramsey touched her cheek too and Gabriel slapped her viciously, knocking her to the ground. Two men grabbed Duncan’s arms, preventing him from reaching her. “You said you would not-” she cried.
“What I said,” came Ramsey’s oily voice, “was that I would not kill him when we met.” Duncan had learned long ago to hate the thin cruel smile that formed on Ramsey’s undersized mouth. He slapped Duncan again, in the belly, on his mouth, on his thigh, in his belly again. Teague landed a hammer-like strike at each spot his master indicated, until finally, as Duncan crumbled, he continued with his own unprompted flurry of kicks.